My happy ending
by mika-thoma
Summary: Just a one shot about Naru and his thoughts. He is no longer happy with where he is at life, how he lives and his feelings, you could say in short.


**Title:** My happy ending

**Author:** Mika (bleeding_jaws)

**Beta:** thethirdstone

**Band:** Velgreed

**Character:** Naru

**Rating:** Pg-15

**Genre:** Angst

**Chapters:** One shot

**Warning:** Self harm?

**Disclaimer:** No. I don't own anyone at all!

**Summary:** I gave up on so many things, you and my surroundings, myself included, just got lost along the way.

**Note:** Comments are

Naru's POV

I gave up thinking about you when you left me for something else, in the embrace of someone else. I gave up hoping for anything more than to get my heart back in one piece. I gave up on the painting that you left by the couch, half finished and ugly. I gave up believing that tomorrows would be different and that things could work out. I gave up watching the stars because maybe I never liked it after all. I gave up on so many things, you and my surroundings, myself included, just got lost along the way.

I grab the microphone and clutch my hand tightly around it. I let my eyes fall down on the crowd in front of me, who are waiting in anticipation. For something, with their eyes sparkling in the beliefs of tomorrow. Everything slows down and my grip becomes firmer as my eyes glide over the faces that glow in the dark. So young and so naive. My lips tug into a smile that I refuse to believe in. I loosen my hold on the microphone and bring it closer to my mouth and scream my heart out at everyone in front of me who answer me back with their voices even louder, lots of them.

Once backstage I can hear their screams for an encore. I tell them all that my throat is too sore, I don't want to go back out again. Averting my eyes from the questioning look of everyone in the room, packed with both members of the band and various people from the crew. I cast my eyes downwards in my lap and nibble on my lip ring. Why should I have to keep on giving, when I never receive one ounce back of anything I wanted? How much more can I give, already I'm giving so much of myself that it's like taking a knife and peeling of pieces of flesh. I give more than I want to, so much that I am almost disappearing into nothing. I give you the hopes and beliefs I don't know about, I give you a painting of myself that isn't as ugly as the reality behind the canvas. What more do you want me to give? Can't you be the one who give me the hopes for a better today? Can't you give me something so that I can look them in their eyes and tell them that my throat isn't sore anymore?

It's easier said than done, isn't it?

I scramble on my tired feet because I can't stand the stuffy air of the room anymore. You cast some worried glances at my back, I can feel their heat upon my skin, but none of you say anything and it's a good thing because I would probably let it bounce off me and keep walking through the door.

Outside I pull out a half empty pack of cigarettes and stare at it for a minute thinking that it's like that glass of water. My life isn't as I want it to be, so I'm pretty much half filled. And it can be seen even in this pack of cigarettes because it's half empty for a reason. Casting away the disturbing thought, I lit up a cigarette and wonder when will it be empty? Puffing out the air in a long sigh, I watch it vanish against the vast night sky. No stars, just blinking neon signs all around. Bringing my hand up into my line of vision, I watch it intently and wonder if there's anything I can do with them. I slump down on the ground and stump the cigarette because it was more of a bad habit than a sinful pleasure.

I gave up thinking about you. I gave up on your painting. I gave up hoping. I gave up on my heart, I gave up on you, and I lost myself as I was giving up. Why are you everywhere, inside of everything, have I not given up on you? My hands are of no use to me if they can't hold you back and make you stay, make you look my way and see things from where I stand. My hands are nothing but futile flesh attached to my body, they can't do anything about something that haunts me day in and day out. They can't make you stay, and they can't let you go, useless. I am the worst of the worst.

I fist my hand and I look at the rings sparkling in the dark. I bring my hand up higher before I drive it into the ground and let it painfully smash against the dirt that lies there. Grinding it in the sand upon the asphalt. Pain. Gritting my teeth but I still bring my hand up again so I can smash it down once more. Forcefully, it's the painful adrenaline that pumps my heart and makes me do it one more time, and then once more, and then again... Repeatedly I do it so many times the pain starts to fade away much like the white smoke from my cigarette earlier. Blood trails down my soft skin and open wounds decorate my knuckles in a disturbing view. I stopped for a bit because I heard something crack. Felt something snap inside of my hand. All the pain from my actions, from everything, rushed back and suddenly warm wetness burned on my cheeks. In a moment so short and so lost in the night something broke apart and it didn't resound anywhere but deep inside of my tearing heart. But I knew in those seconds, maybe things would work out.


End file.
